In Which John Watson Does Not Go On Dates With Detectives
by MidnightFlyte
Summary: John is not gay, it isn't a date, there aren't murderers next door, and Mycroft knows everything but can't be bothered to show up. Semi-fluffy snark. post-Reichenbach.


"John!" Sherlock Holmes tapped his flatmate's shoulder. He was seated on the table, gazing out the window intently. John was seated at the table like a normal human being, thank you very much, the screen of his laptop propped up against Sherlock's side. "John, pay _attention_!"

John looked up from his laptop. "What is it?" And, as an afterthought: "I just got milk yesterday, Sherlock, I _swear _if you've gone and put eyeballs into it …"

Sherlock paused, as if contemplating that. "No, that's ridiculous," he said after a while in an undertone. "I think it would be more interesting if …"

"Never mind what would be more interesting!" John tried to cut off the detective's train of thought. When Sherlock thought that something would be "interesting," he ended up getting shot at or the flat smelled funny for months on end. He lowered his tone. "What is it?"

"We're going out for surveillance." And with those words, Sherlock was already by the door, putting on that wool jacket of his. He cinched his scarf around his neck. "Come along, John."

John grumbled to himself but knew better than to argue. He pulled his jacket off of its place on the hook on the wall and shrugged it on, following Sherlock down the stairs. "Any particular reason why?"

"Because we need to follow somebody."

"It's pouring."

"He'll be going to inside places." Sherlock made a vague gesture with his hands. "Shops and normal people places. Such as restaurants."

"Sherlock, I don't think this is a good—" Sherlock hauled John out of the flat by the doctor's upper arm, grabbing a hat on the way out of the flat. When they were outside, he handed the hat to John. "—idea."

Having already walked halfway down the street, Sherlock didn't look like more than just another stranger in the crowded streets that thronged London on a Saturday afternoon, even in the cold rain of late September. John hurried to catch up. "So who are we following, anyway?"

Sherlock jerked his head in the man's general direction. "Him."

"I had sort of figured that out, Sherlock. A name would be helpful." _You absolute idiot_, John felt like adding. He rubbed his nose as he walked. He could feel it starting to freeze. And that damn red hat itched his scalp in ways that scalps were not meant to itch.

Just as Sherlock was about to reply, the man walked into the Tesco that John bought things ("things" being the milk that vanished from the flat whenever he needed it, the jam that Sherlock would put eyeballs in, and the more mundane produce needed to sustain life) from to stop them both from starving to death. Sherlock hissed through his teeth.

"He won't be out for a while. _Damn_!" He looked about briskly, before grabbing John's arm—_again_—and dragging him over to a nearby small restaurant. "We'd like a window seat, please," he said rather charmingly (for Sherlock, at least) to the teenaged girl standing at the door.

"Sure!" She walked into the restaurant. John shook his arm out of Sherlock's not-quite-a-vice-but-pretty-close grip and followed her indoors. The restaurant resulted from Italian and British food mixing together at the lowest price possible. As he walked to the small (really, it looked like it belongs in a dollhouse) table, his nose was assaulted with the scents of tomato sauce, frying fish, cheese and pasta. He wondered, briefly, if this was how Sherlock sensed everything, every day. And then he wondered why he was wondering.

"What do you recommend?" he asked the girl when he and Sherlock were both seated, Sherlock gazing intently at the Tesco.

"The eggplant parm and the spaghetti," she said, a tinge of Italian in her voice.

"Sounds good," John said, and didn't glance at the large posters with pictures of the food and the costs. The past two months had been rather lucrative ones, as far as the consultant business went, full of rather interesting homicides that necessitated Sherlock's expertise and John's knowledge of anatomy, leading to them splitting the paycheck. "We'll take one of each." Sherlock started at this, and opened his mouth to protest, but the girl had already gone. He settled for glaring at John.

"You know I don't eat on cases."

"Sherlock," John rubbed his temples with his fingers and almost banged his forehead into Sherlock's. Damn tiny table. "You haven't eaten for _two days_." Ever since he had come back after six months of nonexistence, Sherlock's eating habits had gone down the drain. He had eaten, in the half year that he had been back, as much as John would eat in two months.

Sherlock just shrugged. "Important case."

But he capitulated, and when the girl came back, bearing two plates heaped high with food, he kept his mouth shut.

"Which for who?" the girl asked.

"I'll take the spaghetti," John said quickly, because the heap of parmesan did not look appealing in the slightest sense of the word.

"Here you are," she sing-songed, setting the plate of tomato-sauced pasta down in front of him, "and the parm for your date."

"He's _not _my—" John sighed, the girl's already headed back to the kitchen. "Date," he finished lamely, before attacking the spaghetti.

As John mixed the tomato sauce in with the spaghetti, the tips of his ears red, Sherlock picked at the eggplant parmesan. He took a small bite, shrugged, and kept eating, keeping one eye on the Tesco.

"Right, then," John said, and looked up from his lunch to ask, "who are we—"

Sherlock took that moment to steal a forkful of John's spaghetti.

"Hey! You want that, you should have bloody ordered it!" John glowered before stealing a forkful of Sherlock's rather messy parmesan. He forced it down and glared back down at his own plate, the question of the identity of their quarry avoided.

As John finished his spaghetti, and Sherlock was three-quarters of the way through his parmesan, the man walked out of Tesco. Without bothering to finish the food on his fork, Sherlock stood up swiftly, knocking John's knees hard enough to leave a bruise, and exited the restaurant. John rolled his eyes, put fifteen pounds on the table, and headed out, nearly sprinting down the slippery sidewalk to catch up with the detective, who walked parallel to the man now carrying a cloth bag lumpy with groceries.

"So somebody has moved in with him," Sherlock said to himself.

"Him who?" John said.

"_Him_. Oxford educated, military officer, ex-military, recently had somebody move in … employed in illegal activities … marksman, _obviously_, hunter."

John stared at the man, watching him thread his way around the small knots of people that bustled about. About his age, the brunet man was taller than him by a few inches. He saw the Magdalen sweatshirt, the straight spine, and the careful tread. "You've lost me for half of those."

Sherlock glanced at him. "Military posture, no discernable wounds? Couple that with the marksman's eye—he's watching everything. Discharged because one too many soldiers were shot down behind, or he got out before he was caught. Because he was out until two this morning, and carrying a duffel bag when he came back, he isn't employed in anything legal."

"The move-in?"

"This is the second time this week he's gone shopping. He went once on Wednesday. Same bag, slightly smaller amount of food. He bought milk then too. And wine, so … girlfriend." Sherlock nodded briskly. "Girlfriend," he repeated.

"And what makes him so interesting?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. As they approached the corner of the street, he turned and walked in to another small store, grabbed a newspaper, tossed a coin on the counter, and walked out in under five seconds. He underlined the title with his finger. _Third Mob Killing in Two Months_, it read.

"Somebody has been knocking off members of the mobs. Not just the Italian, like this time, the other two were from the Peckham Boys. The same nights as this man has been out. Each night, he comes back with the duffel bag."

"How were the men killed?"

"Bullet to the brain." Sherlock paused. "Locked apartment doors in all three cases, security at the door of the building. Locked windows. He shot them from quite a distance, at night."

"Why hasn't Lestrade called us—you—about this?"

Sherlock shrugged before replying. "Mob killings. _Think_, John. The cops don't care if a few gangsters get knocked off. The streets are cleaner."

"But you care," John said. "So why is it important?"

"Those particular men were involved in an underground smuggling ring bringing in gold and diamonds from South Africa. Mycroft," he added, to elucidate. "Mycroft told me about this."

"And you aren't going to tell Lestrade … because somehow the murder of these gangsters … is beneficial to Mycroft."

Sherlock nodded. "Good, John. It only took you ten times as long as it should have for you to figure it out."

For a while, the man just wandered the streets of London, carrying a bag of groceries. He made several stops in small stores. One was a computer repair shop, the other, a Verizon office, and the third, a sporting goods store. However, the man didn't pick up anything from any of these stores, despite spending a good half hour in each and at least forty-five minutes in the sporting goods store.

While the man was in the sporting goods store, John and Sherlock waited him out, sitting in a small drugstore across the street. John saw the man come out when he glanced to his left, saw that the man was talking on his phone. "Sherlock. Talking." He jerked his head in the man's general direction as they headed back out onto the streets.

Blinking a few times, Sherlock focused on the man, his lips moving slowly. "Yes, I know," he said to himself in an undertone. "Do you want me to do something? … If they are, then I would expect it … _No_, you …" John watched the man exhale sharply and roll his eyes, and Sherlock continued relaying the conversation, not pausing as he walked across the street. A car zipped past, close enough to whip the bottom of his wool jacket as if it was caught in a stiff breeze.

"Look, where are you? I'll swing by … Oh, fine, then. See you." Sherlock concluded the exchange as the man pressed a button on his phone and slipped it into his pocket before turning left, into the more populated streets that crowded the fringes of the financial district.

"Hmm." Sherlock shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and took the left turn across the street, following the man. In the space of a second, he raised his phone out of his pocket, snapped a picture, and slipped his phone back into his coat after quickly tapping out a message.

John found himself trying to keep up as Sherlock threaded his way through the streets, following the man, who stopped on a rather crowded street corner. Sherlock promptly shoved John behind a building before stepping sideways himself. As John tried his utmost to not fall and end up concussed—Sherlock might be skinny, but _damn _he was strong—Sherlock side-stepped next to him and peered out around the corner of the building. John grumbled to himself, and glanced down the street to make sure that they hadn't been followed.

That was when he saw it.

He noticed the suit first, the impeccably pressed folds. Then the shoes, elaborately shined, barely twenty feet away from the building where he and Sherlock hid and approaching. It took all of his military training, all of his discipline and self-control, to not freak out and run right then and there. "Sherlock," he hissed, shaking the detective's shoulder.

"_What_, John?" Sherlock straightened out of half-crouch he had sunk into.

John struggled to get the words out, but somehow, his mouth froze, and he ended up blurting out two syllables that, all things considered, worked just as well.

"_Westwood_."

"Oh." Sherlock's eyes widened, and, if it was possible, he turned a shade whiter than he already was. He looked over John's shoulder. "Ten feet." His eyes flicked around the area, and John knew what he was looking for. A place to hide. To run now would definitely attract Moriarity's attention. John looked, too. No chance. There wasn't even a Dumpster to hide behind or dive into.

Sherlock's eyes flicked around for a second as he looked up for fire escapes. Nothing. Finally, as Moriarity walked past them, he grabbed John's shoulder's, pushed him against the wall and kissed him on the mouth in one fluid movement. His eyes were off to the right as he did so, watching Moriarity's shoes.

John's eyes were as round as dinner plates. His brain got the message across amazingly eloquently: _Sherlock kissing mouth what? _before he tried to get away, which was rather disappointing, as Sherlock was a semi-decent kisser. It's not that he had half the mouth of some girls (nice, heterosexual girls that John _liked _to kiss because he _was not gay_), it's that he kissed like a little kid. That is, with his mouth closed.

It was touchingly innocent and completely incongruous with the way John was shoved up against the glass-and-steel wall of the building with Sherlock's hands on either side of his face, hold, like it was three in the morning and he and Sherlock were horny teenagers.

And the insane part was that it worked. Moriarity walked directly past them, and Sherlock took that opportunity to take a quick step back and sprint down the alley. John followed, of course. That seemed to be his lot in life—to follow Sherlock everywhere, into _every _stupid situation. He silently ranted as they walked back to Baker Street.

And no, he did _not _think about kissing Sherlock, thank-you-very-much. It was in the heat of the moment and a method of hiding. Even _he_ wasn't stupid enough to over-react, no matter what Sherlock might insinuate all the time …

… not thinking about Sherlock, _not _thinking about Sherlock … fuck. John violently shoved his hands into his pockets and barely noticed that they were not going into the flat until Sherlock yanked him around the corner (twice in one day? This was getting painful). The man they followed was walking back to the flat, his arm around Moriarity's shoulder. They were both talking about something, Moriarity snickering occasionally, and the black umbrella that Moriarity was using to shield his _precious _Westwood from the rain was over their heads as they walked up to the flat next door and entered, the man pulling out keys from his pocket and unlocking the door.

_His arm around Moriarity's shoulder? Next door? Scratch that, Moriarity? _

"Sherlock," John hissed. "Explain this."

Sherlock blinked several times before replying. "Well," he said. "It appears I was incorrect about the girlfriend."

"You _ass_." John walked around him and pulled out his keys to 221b. He unlocked the outer door and climbed up the stairs, saying as he entered the flat, "if you don't want to catch pneumonia, I would suggest that you come in sometime soon."

Sherlock didn't come back for another half hour. And no, John did not watch the numbers in the lower-right corner of his screen get closer and closer to 7:00. He just wondered when the next episode of a show he had been watching would air. That was all. Really.

Sherlock barged into the flat at 7:13 and plucked the laptop up from John's small table, before sitting on the table and starting to type like a madman.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Now was not the time for the "personal possessions" talk, as Sherlock was never particularly responsive to any sort of mundane critique.

"Of course, that isn't his permanent residence. He's just using it because it isn't near any of his targets. _That's _why he hasn't been," Sherlock remarked conversationally.

"Who? What?"

The detective sighed impatiently. "The man we were following this afternoon, John, do you never _think_?" He drummed his index finger on his left temple to accentuate his point. "Now if you'll excuse me, Mycroft has just gotten back to me."

"Can either of you explain _what the bloody hell is going on_? We went out to follow some hitman and he turned out to be shacked up with Moriarity! Next door!" John made a face of disgust at the idea of _Moriarity _shacking up with anybody.

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "The flat next door, 219c, is leased out to one Johann Wasserlauf. He is thirty-three years old, mother in a nursing home, no immediate family in the area. And yes, since you seem so preoccupied with it, he is in a civil relationship with Richard Brook." This was recited tonelessly, as if Sherlock was a robotic scanner at Tesco reciting directions to shoppers. The detective sighed. "Does that answer your question?"

"How did you know that?"

"His landlady is a friend of Mrs. Hudson's. You know, John, talking to people can prove _extraordinarily _useful, you ought to try it some time." At this, John could only gape like a fish out of water while Sherlock continued. "It's all false, of course. The man's name is Sebastian Moran, ex-Army, et cetera."

"And he's using 219c as a place to hide while he knocks off members of the criminal underground. Because he … works for Moriarity." John froze. "We have to tell Mycroft, if Moriarity is behind this then he—"

Sherlock cut him off. "Mycroft already knows. He gave me Moran's real name, which was hidden in a file that was _supposed_ to be sealed permanently." John wasn't sure whether his tone belayed contempt for the government that could be bribed to hide names or a grudging respect for his brother. He showed the screen of his phone to John. The text on it read "Good job, little brother. It took you a bit longer than usual to guess the identity of his employer; I suppose you've gotten rusty after your vacation. Keep it quiet. –MH."

"He is absolutely insufferable," Sherlock said as he slipped his phone into his pocket. John wasn't sure if he was talking about Moriarity—who was _living next door with another mass murderer and was married to him oh god_—or his older brother.

John stood up, pushing his chair away from the table. "I need a walk. And dinner, because _somebody_ forgot it was their turn to do the bloody shopping." He grabbed his jacket, pulling out the ridiculous red hat, and headed out of the flat. "Are you coming or not?"

"I wasn't aware that that was an invitation," Sherlock said as he walked out with John. He turned right, before realizing that John was walking to his left as fast as his legs would carry them.

"I do not want to walk by their door," John said, almost to himself. "I do not want to bump into them shopping, I do not want to think about this. Nope. There are not mass murderers living next to me, and, if there were, I'd _be able to go to the bloody police about it_!"

"You do realize that the police create more problems than they solve, unless of course they're relying on me to point out the blatantly obvious."

"Right. Of course. We would all be lost without the great Sherlock Holmes to inform us that the dirt on our shoes means that it rained on the day that we went to our mum's funeral." John huffed out a breath. "What do you want for dinner? And you're eating dinner," he added. "Because you figured out who Mister Hitman was, and you cannot make people scared to sleep at night and then refuse to eat."

"I have not made you _scared_, John." Sherlock was being utterly insensitive to the idea that some people might not view the world as a simple puzzle the way he did. Then again, when wasn't he?

"That's not the point," John argued.

"Then what is? You're uncharacteristically wordy."

John stopped walking. _Shit. I am. Shit. _"Well, you, um, you bloody kissed me. There was that."

"Yes. And?"

"Sherlock, you don't just go around _kissing _people! There could have been a better way to get out of that situation!" John thought for a second. "I honestly doubt that Moriarity would have noticed us, anyway!"

"Moriarity notices everything, John," Sherlock said calmly. "And yes, we could have gotten away, but … well, he would have noticed you. And minimizing your visible body area while drawing attention away from us was the most propitious choice at the moment. Because anything else would lead to Moriarity noticing you, and well … Idon'twantyoutogethurt."

The last bit is said in one rushed breath. John raises his eyebrows. "Sorry, what was that? Didn't quite hear that last bit."

"I did not want you to get hurt," Sherlock repeats through clenched teeth. "I jumped off of a bloody building to keep you alive, I don't _particularly _feel like having you get hurt."

"Oh." John stared at the ground as he walked on, Sherlock resolutely not saying anything. "I … don't want you to get hurt either. Where do you want to go for dinner?"

"Mycroft will be going to a dreadfully expensive French place not two miles from here. Fancy a walk?" As he said this, Sherlock removed his hands from his pocket. His left hand bumped into John's right.

John glanced down at their hands, thought about this, and held Sherlock's hand. "Walk sounds fine."

* * *

If you've stuck this out then you either have mental issues or a ton of booze. Congratulations.

un-beta'd, so I own all mistakes and yes I know that my writing lowers the IQ of the whole Internet. I am sorry it sucks so much, if that helps. Criticism is beautiful.

This is for Drift, or reality-is-not-my-division on tumblr. It's ace!Sherlock/John, because I am **_pretty_**sure that Sherlock's an ace. (And I have excellent acedar, so.) (Also murder husbands because fuck everything _I ship it so hard_.)

There might or might not be a continuation. Don't count on it.

Also, Sherlock took away John's laptop for a reason, the same reason that he suggested that they walk to that French restaurant for. Find out the day that this story is set and figure out the allusion in one of the quotes, and you'll know what I'm talking about. (Do not post this in a review if you do find it. Let others figure it out.)


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